


Probably Not

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Blindfolds, Hair Kink, M/M, No Fluff, Shameless Smut, Sherlock's Hair, Sub Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John and Sherlock find an empty room in Mycroft's house. What on earth can they do to pass the time?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know, I have a list of fics to finish, and a whole lot of nothing to show for it. 
> 
> But then [this](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356517463503/) showed up, and I had seriously no choice but to write it. *sob

John had to admit, this was almost as boring as Sherlock had warned him it would be. He’d insisted they both come, despite Sherlock’s warning about Mycroft’s idea of a satisfactory social event. As amazing as Mycroft’s house was, seeing it didn’t make up for the sheer tedium of the people here. He would have assumed that a room full of diplomats and politicians would be better at small talk, or at least better at hiding their disdain for John and his blue collar roots. It hadn’t taken long for John to give up and find a quiet corner to wait out the rest of the afternoon.

He scanned the room for Sherlock. Nothing. Just as he was about to shift from his secluded spot against the wall, a hand reached out and grabbed him. It was only the long practice of working with Sherlock that prevented John from spinning and slamming the owner of the hand against the floor. Sure enough, the familiar grip on his wrist belonged to Sherlock. Before John could speak, Sherlock pulled him down a side corridor and into a large, bright room, practically empty apart from a divan pushed against the wall and a collection of odd dining chairs. He shut the door behind them, leaning his tall frame against it. For a moment Sherlock closed his eyes, head leaned against the door, and John couldn’t help but notice how well his suit fitted him, accentuating the long lines of his legs and torso. It was new, and black as pitch. John had questioned his choice of black suit with white shirt, and Sherlock had likened the event to a funeral, claiming his choice was appropriate. John had not sought an argument, though he’d relished the broad smile Sherlock had given him when he’d seen John come down the stairs in a black suit of his own. He’d added a little colour with his tie and at his pocket, but he knew Sherlock appreciated the solidarity, even if John had no idea why Sherlock likened this event to a funeral.

“What happened to your tie?” John asked, leaning against the wall near the divan.

“Experiment.” Sherlock replied, and John cocked an eyebrow. It was quiet in here, and secluded; neither had to speak at full volume to be heard. The empty room would echo any loud noises, with the wooden floor and bare walls.

“How long would it take for Mycroft’s ‘people’” he did the commas with his hands that John hated, “to ask me to put on a tie.” He smirked. “They’ll have to catch me, of course.”

“They’re looking for you?” John asked, and the sound of Sherlock turning the key in the door was loud and metallic, echoing around the room as he had predicted.

“Looking does not equate to finding, John.” He said, and they shared a smile, comfortable and familiar. John’s head was a little fuzzy, given the champagne he had drunk while waiting behind the pot plant, but Sherlock’s gaze seemed to hold a different light than usual. Sherlock seemed to be lethargic, his movements now that they were safely ensconced here languid and slower. Without taking his eyes from John, Sherlock strolled across the room, laying his long body on the divan. John was standing at his feet, still leaning against the wall. A frisson of heat trailed down John’s spine. He’d wondered a few times if these moments were real – the moments where their eyes met for a little too long, a meaningful silence that perhaps shouldn’t have gone on quite as long as it did, the knowing look in Sherlock’s eyes and his answering rapid heartbeat. Always, though, something had interrupted them, prevented either of them seeing what might be, given time.

Now, they were locked in a room, the moment spinning out, wider and deeper than ever, with nothing to prevent them exploring where it might lead. John’s eyes and Sherlock’s were still locked together, even as Sherlock’s right leg cocked up, his hand resting high on his thigh. A smile played over his lips, fingers of his left hand running over the lip of the carved headboard. The motion was mildly obscene, a veiled promise of things to come, should they take the path not yet travelled together.

“What shall we do to pass the time?” Sherlock asked, his voice a baritone as smooth and silky as a gentle breeze on bare skin. John looked down, fixing his cufflinks as he tried to keep a straight face. Sherlock might think he was taking the lead here, but John Watson was nothing if not experienced when it came to the art of delicate anticipation.

“There’s not much in here.” John pointed out. “Except you. And me.” He turned a little, so the front of his shins was pressed against the edge of the divan. The sole of Sherlock’s shoe pressed against his kneecap. “And this divan.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock replied noncommittally, fingers now tracing the line of his inseam, high on his thigh. His eyes were half closed as he regarded John, mouth still twisted into a knowing half smile.

“Of course,” John continued, “Whatever we do would have to be very quiet. This room is very echo-y, and any sound would be amplified.” Sherlock nodded considering, his eyes assessing John as he spoke.

“It would be terrible to disrupt Mycroft’s party.”

“True.” John acknowledged. He would not be the one to set the gauntlet here; Sherlock wanted to play, it was up to him to signal the end of the banter and the start of…whatever came next.

“That’ll be fairly boring then, I’d wager.” Sherlock said, the challenge in his voice unmistakable.

John raised his eyebrows. So that was it, then? Oh, Sherlock, what a mistake you’ve made, he thought.

“Not necessarily.” He said, smirking openly. Challenge accepted.

Sherlock smiled again, a broad, thrilling gesture. “Show me.” He said, in a voice that sent a wave of sharp desire down John from head to toe.

John’s smirk widened as he considered his options. Sherlock was clearly under the impression that John would not be able to extract a noise from him, but there were two things he did not know about John. One, he was a very, very patient lover; and two, he would not ever back down from a challenge about sex. As such, his only question was, how to begin? Slowly, of course, but he knew that in order to take Sherlock apart, to completely undo that iron control, he would have to be methodical and calculating. Given their relative positions, John decided to start with Sherlock’s shoes. His smirk changed, morphing from arrogance into softness as he knelt, tugging on the laces of Sherlock’s shoes. He removed them both, placing them carefully on the floor. John took one of Sherlock’s feet in his hands, running his thumbs firmly up the arch, pressing into the sole. His fingers ran smoothly along the fine cotton, and he repeated the process on the other foot, before stripping both socks off and placing them inside the shoes. John could see the fine leg hairs where they disappeared into the darkness inside Sherlock’s trousers, and he lay his hands on the tops of Sherlock’s feet, thumbs drawing a soft line from ankle up to tangle in the dark hairs further up.

“Safeword, I think.” John murmured, and Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched.

For a moment he didn’t reply, then his lips parted and he said, “Hedgehog.”

John nodded. His thumbs were still moving over Sherlock’s ankles, then John removed his hands and raised them to the knot of his own tie. He tugged at it slowly, undoing the top button of his shirt before sliding the fabric out from under his collar.

“Sit up.” John said, and Sherlock complied without question. John, careful not to touch Sherlock more than absolutely necessary, slid the tie over his eyes and tied it firmly at the back of his head.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock said, “Yes,” without hesitation. John guided him to lie back down, one hand behind his head until it me the back of the divan again. That hand trailed across Sherlock’s cheek, tracing the line of that incredible cheekbone, before dipping down along his neck. John stopped at the pulse point, feeling the steady beat. Slightly elevated, he thought, though it could be hard to tell with Sherlock. His fingers drifted further, pausing at the first fastened button of Sherlock’s pristine white shirt.

With a single hand, John flicked open the button, then paused. Sherlock’s breath was shallower, and John knew he was waiting for the touch to come; instead, John’s hand moved to the next button, working carefully to avoid any brush of their skin. He paused again, then moved on, continuing the pattern until he reached the buckle of Sherlock’s belt. His shirt was open, now, from neck to hips, a sliver of exposed skin teasing John. Finally and with great deliberation, John placed one fingertip to Sherlock’s skin, below his belly button where the dark hair spiralled down under the cover of his trousers. His fingertip was feather light, trailing with agonising slowness up, around his bellybutton, fingernail scraping a little along the line of his floating ribs, then bumping across the ribs to a nipple. Sherlock breathed in sharply as that fingernail dragged across, the flat skin bunching up to a hard nub almost immediately. Interesting, John thought, his own breath requiring more effort now to stay steady. Still, Sherlock had incredible self-control, and John wanted not only to crack it, but to burst it wide open, to leave him begging for release. Perhaps a more aural cue would help them get over that line, John wondered. He lowered himself down, until his mouth was close to Sherlock’s ear. He breathed warm air over the skin, seeing the slight shiver as Sherlock felt the air current cross his flesh.

“I can see you,” John started, his voice low and intimate, “laying spread out waiting for me. For my finger to travel from here,” it traced one nipple, “to here,” and then the other, “not knowing whether you’ll get this,” a gentle circle, “or this,” a pinch and tug, eliciting a gasp, Sherlock’s torso arching a little against the sudden pain. John grinned to himself, massaging the skin for a moment to help dissipate the sensation. Gotcha, he thought. Dirty talk it is, Mr. Holmes.

“Perhaps this is how you’ve imagined us,” John went on quelling the embarrassment that rose at any suggestion that this was something either of them had contemplated before today. “while you like to think you’re in charge, Sherlock, it’s actually me who is deciding how” he ran his hand flat and rough across Sherlock’s chest and down his flank, “and where” the same hand ran up Sherlock’s neck, tangling in his hair, “I touch you.” The hand in his hair was slick with whatever product Sherlock had used to tame his mane, which had until now been tightly under control. John’s strong fingers gripped the dark curls, tugging gently against them, freeing them from the confines of the wax or whatever he used. Sherlock’s bottom lip was between his teeth as he fought for control. That was the key, John thought, control.

John leaned closer, his lips touching Sherlock’s ear. He ran his lips over the outer shell of Sherlock’s ear as his hand played with his hair, breathing hot and hard at the same time. “I’ve dreamed of running my hands into your hair, grabbing a handful and pulling you in, directing you to move to my liking.” John whispered, glad for the makeshift blindfold to hide his own beet red face. As true as this was, there was no way in the world he would be telling Sherlock this if there was a chance Sherlock would be able to see his face. “Would you like to hear what I would have you do, Sherlock?” He nodded fervently, and John paused, wondering how to phrase the fantasy that commonly ran alongside his wanking in the shower. Partly buying time, partly to simply see it with his own eyes, John pressed his thumb against Sherlock’s lips. They parted, and he slid the digit inside, Sherlock sucking hard, running his tongue over the sensitive skin over and over. John groaned almost silently, the sensation running directly to his cock. How to get from there to….inspiration struck, and he spoke again. “What if I showed you, instead?” A hesitation, barely there, then a nod. John asked again, to be sure. “Is that what you want, Sherlock? You want me to show you what I have you do to me in my fantasies?” Sherlock nodded immediately and emphatically this time, lip still caught between his teeth, not trusting himself to speak. John had to swallow hard, then. This in itself was a bit of a fantasy, but there was a challenge involved, they had a safeword, and John wasn’t foolish enough to turn down such an opportunity. Locking his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, he tugged, Sherlock taking the hint and sitting up.

“Take off your shirt.” John instructed, and Sherlock did so, cufflinks flying across the room as he impatiently undid them, tossing his shirt to the side. John turned him now, so he was sitting bare feet on the floor, John standing between his spread knees. John gulped again. The sight of Sherlock so compliant, so close to the aching rod that was his cock, was almost overwhelming.

“Lean forward, I’m right in front of you.” John said, tugging again on that hair to emphasise his words. Sherlock leaned forward, his nose hitting John’s stomach. Pushing downwards slightly made John blush again – he’d never be so crude with a woman, but this was hardly a scenario for comparison – and Sherlock eagerly lowered his head, tracing past the buttons on John’s jacket to his belt buckle. He kept moving, and John gasped out loud when Sherlock’s open mouth traced the line of his cock in his trousers. Sherlock mouthed at the bulge, the slight friction driving John crazy with desire. Without being told, Sherlock took his hands from John’s waist and started undoing his belt, never taking his mouth from John’s trousers. Belt, placket button and zipper were made short work of, then John’s trousers dropped past his knees, and Sherlock’s tongue was against his pants, the wet spot large and growing where John had been leaking copiously since Sherlock first ran his tongue over John’s thumb. Sherlock’s tongue swirled around the head of John’s cock, his hands gripping John’s hips tight, before reaching into his waistband and tugging on the fabric. His pants went the same way as his trousers, and John was finally witness to the glorious sight of a blindfolded Sherlock Holmes licking the pre-come off the end of his cock. He bit back a groan, then a string of obscenities as Sherlock took most of John into his mouth. The sensation was incredible, but the visual was what tipped John over the edge – Sherlock’s mouth stretched wide by the width of his cock; Sherlock’s cheeks flushed with arousal from his words and touch; Sherlock’s eyes covered by the blindfold, the implicit trust in such an arrangement. Sherlock had barely started when John grunted a warning before coming hard, his cock still buried in Sherlock’s throat. John’s fist was clenched in Sherlock’s hair, his head thrown back as he rode the ecstasy, but he made barely a sound, years of wanking in a barrack giving him plenty of practice. As Sherlock swallowed him down, John drifted, the blissful aftermath exquisite.

After a moment, Sherlock redressed John, still blindfolded, fumbling on the belt but otherwise efficient and precise. John watched, his grip on Sherlock’s hair loosening as he massaged the spot; his tight grip had surely hurt Sherlock and he regretted it. When John was dressed, Sherlock sat still, clearly waiting for John’s next decision. Given that this had not gone in the direction John had planned, he really did need to get back to trying to make Sherlock scream.

“Sherlock,” John said carefully, “now that I’ve shown you how it’s done, it’s your turn.” He dropped to his knees, hands resting on Sherlock’s thighs. He kept his voice calm and matter of fact lest he betray his own nerves. “I’m going to take you in my mouth until you beg me to let you come, but you’ll have to promise me you’ll be as quiet as a mouse.” Sherlock’s thigh’s tensed as he nodded. John had him stand, then swiftly undressed him, laying the expensive trousers (and the jacket and shirt from the floor) over one of the dining chairs. Gently, he lay Sherlock back against the divan, in the same pose he’d taken earlier when he was teasing John.

“Relax, Sherlock,” John said, “we’ve all the time in the world.” He started running his hands over Sherlock, a random trail across muscle and prominent bone, fascinated by the pale long lines of this body. How on earth was he allowed to touch this, to explore and meander across it without reservation? He revisited Sherlock’s nipples, using his mouth to worship the tender flesh; Sherlock tensed and quivered as he did so, and John loved every second. He moved on, taking Sherlock’s hands, sucking each finger in turn, tracing the life lines on his hands with fingers and tongue, laying the palms against his own face, feeling Sherlock explore his own features. This slow burn was superb, and John felt his own body taking an interest once again. If only, he regretted a little, he had been prepared, they could have…but next time. If there was a next time. For now, though, he had a challenge to win.

Focussing in again on Sherlock, John turned his attention where he had so far avoided. Sherlock’s cock, pale as the rest of him, hard and leaking since he had first been undressed, had now left a pool of pre-come on his stomach. John licked his way from base to tip, one long wide strip, pining Sherlock’s hips down as they arched almost to the sky, it seemed. A groan came from his mouth, and John chuckled audibly.

“Quietly, please.” He reminded Sherlock, licking his abdomen clean, then taking Sherlock’s cock deep into his mouth. Another deep groan, and John could hear the battle in the gravelly tone. His plan was working, then. He spent a blissful time ravishing every inch of Sherlock’s cock in every way he had ever enjoyed himself, listening to Sherlock’s body and pulling him back from the edge more than once. By the time he lowered his lips again to taste the shape of Sherlock’s balls, Sherlock was panting hard, a little mewling sound every few breaths marking the extremity of his arousal. John, realising how close Sherlock was, smirked to himself. Taking a second to figure out the logistics, he took Sherlock’s cock as deep into his mouth as he could and sucked hard, while one hand pinched as Sherlock’s nipple and the other fondled his tightening balls.

The wail that tore from Sherlock’s throat was long, and deep, reverberating around the almost empty room for what felt like aeons. It was neither the volume nor the desperate tone that shocked John the most; it was the sound of his own name in the wail. Sherlock knew it was he doing these things, despite his desperation at being taken to the edge and back, it was John foremost in his mind. John, for his part, had swallowed the salty liquid without thinking, one hand stroking Sherlock’s thigh as he came down from his orgasm. Finally, the haze seemed to have worn off and he lay, naked and spent, on the divan. John stood, stretching, looking at Sherlock. He moved around him, gently untying the blindfold and removing it.

Sherlock blinked against the bright light. John ducked down again, bringing their heads close together.

“I believe you may have won.” Sherlock conceded, his voice rough.

John smirked. “No maybe about it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, clearly too blissfully calm to argue. John noted this for future, thought that was entirely uncertain. Was this a one off?

Without opening his eyes, Sherlock’s hand came up to find John’s face.

“As often as you like, John.” Sherlock said.

“What?” John asked.

“You were wondering if this would happen again, and I vote for as often as you like.” He smiled at John, opening his eyes to see John smiling back.

“Probably not here, though.” John said, looking around at the bare room in Mycroft’s house.

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “Probably not.”


End file.
